


A Murder in May

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Murder Mystery, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malfoy's best friend has been mysteriously murdered; Harry finds himself helping his business-partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Murder in May

**Author's Note:**

> **Awesome betas:** are awesome! [tigersilver](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com) & [thisgirl-is](http://thisgirl-is.livejournal.com/).
> 
> This was written for [HDS Beltane](http://hds-beltane.livejournal.com), for [chantefable](http://chantefable.livejournal.com/)'s prompt/request. I think I filled maybe 1% of the request but I tried. That is really my only defence! (It was fun trying, though!). This fest is a gem and should get much more attention than it does now. 
> 
> Anything that is weird in the fic is my fault for touching it after my betas worked so very hard. There is a court-room scene: please note that the only experience I have with courts is what I see on ‘Law and Order’, so if some detail is VERY WRONG, you are perfectly right!
> 
> **Story notes:** Contains: minor character death. Also: former-Auror!Harry, who is inspired by Will Graham in the Hannibal show currently on TV (in terms of abilities and scruffiness), and reformed-potioneer!Draco. There is, unfortunately, a staggering lack of sexual times; pre-slash, I would say.

The last time Harry Potter saw Pansy Parkinson alive, she had been sneering at her lover, Lord Darceling, and his wife at a pre-Beltane party. Harry had been keeping an eye on Malfoy while simultaneously trying to blend in with the beautifully-kept tapestries of the main hall in the Darceling castle. Malfoy had dragged him to this event, parked him in a corner and said, "Don't wander off, Potter," and then marched off to the other side of the room to take up a post at Parkinson's arm.

Parkinson had worn a beautiful gown, Harry had noted: it glowed gold, and was elegant and long, showing off her curves in sensuous detail. Her hair was short, cut into a style which Harry could never hope to name off the top of his head. As soon as Malfoy stood next to her, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm with effortless grace, fingers held loosely. Malfoy's pale skin and severe robes set off the bright softness of her clothing and the darkness of her hair.

She tilted her head, offering her cheek for a kiss. Malfoy gave her one, and then remained close to whisper urgently in her ear. The knowing smile on her lips did not change its snide angle, nor did she shift her gaze from where it had been fixed on the opposite side of the room.

They seemed to be having an argument. Harry had been in business with Malfoy long enough to know that an argument with most Slytherins could be made up of toothy grins and skewering comments. By now, gauging the sizes of Malfoy's and Parkinson's smiles, Harry could safely surmise that they had reached the point of disparaging insults, the kind of nasty ammunition which former lovers would have no compunction in dragging out.

"Happy Beltane, Harry Potter," a voice said to his left, and Harry turned to face a small woman with sharp eyes and a thin, narrow nose. In her highly embellished gown with its high waist and massive feathers sprouting out of the high collar, she had a childish air. It didn't help that her hair was styled into a tight cap of curls.

Harry recognised her face from the large, still painting that hung in the hallway, just across from the massive arched entry; her likeness had been perched at the very edge of an armchair with a very tall back. A little boy, not fully out of chubby babyhood, sat at her feet; the lovely shape of his eyes was very similar to hers. A tall man stood to the right of her chair, his head held at an angle which indicated that he knew his worth, and the number was very high indeed.

Harry recalled the carved plaque beneath the painting: _Ivar, Qiuyue and Jian_.

"Lady Darceling." Harry offered a formal bow and hoped it was a proper one, close to Malfoy's standards at least; he'd been trying to teach Harry how to behave in high society for days since they'd gotten these invitations. Harry had done his utter best to annoy him at every turn during those impromptu lessons.

"You are hopeless," Malfoy had said, his tone a snap of exasperation over Harry's low giggles. "I give up."

Harry had paid attention, though. It wasn't hard, really, and the 'lessons' had provided a chance for Harry to gaze at Malfoy without reservation.

Now, Lady Darceling returned his bow with a deep curtsey, so low that her wide trailing sleeve-ends brushed the thick carpeting.

"To receive an invitation to your gathering was a great pleasure and a greater honour," Harry remarked, and felt a bit surprised at the smoothness of the words as they flowed out of his mouth. Lady Darceling smiled and nodded at him.

"I am glad that you accepted the invitation, Harry Potter." The smile on her mouth seemed genuinely pleased, and Harry felt himself begin to relax.

Then her gaze shifted to one side and a deep fury transformed her face from piquant to frightening. Hesitantly, because he really wasn't sure if he should present his back to such an apparent danger, he threw a quick glance over his shoulder.

The tall man from the painting, Lord Darceling, stood now with Malfoy and Parkinson. He was flawlessly attractive; beside him, Malfoy was simply a slim man with features made even sharper by undisguised disdain. Parkinson's expression was very composed, except for her eyes: they sparkled, attractively.

"I beg your pardon, Harry Potter," Lady Darceling said, the edges of every word filed to sharp points. "I hope to speak with you more at some time in the evening."

Without waiting for an answer, she walked in measured steps towards her husband, Malfoy, and Parkinson. She placed herself between Lord Darceling and Parkinson in the same way the edge of an axe would part a bit of flimsy parchment in two. Lord Darceling smiled down at her, Parkinson sneered at them both, and Malfoy seemed as if he was on the verge of rolling his eyes.

The music, which had been playing low, now swelled in volume. Malfoy nodded at the Darcelings, his blond hair gleaming in the faux-firelight. It was slicked back, but not like it had been when they'd been younger. Harry wanted to touch it, to feel the strands against his palm. Harry had told him that he'd looked ‘very nice’, when Malfoy had asked earlier.

Actually, he'd smirked and said, "You'll do, I suppose," and then grinned outright when Malfoy had made an extremely disgusted noise in the back of his throat, accompanied by a very rude movement of his fingers. Harry looked at Malfoy's sharp cheek and jaw as he walked away from the Darcelings, dragging Parkinson with him in a very subtle fashion. Parkinson went along willingly, throwing a quick gaze over her shoulder at Ivar Darceling. His wife stood beside him, her eyes wide and her nostrils flaring, her entire body shaking imperceptibly.

A few steps away from where Harry stood, his arms hanging by his sides awkwardly, Parkinson pulled away from Malfoy and frowned at him.

"Just be careful about what you're doing, darling," Malfoy hissed at her, his tone cold under the warm waves of the music. Parkinson looked up at him from under her long, dark lashes.

"I'm the very model of cautious behaviour, _darling_ ," she said. Her languid gaze slid towards Harry without any adjustment to the angle at which she held her head. "Potter. Take care of him, won't you?" Without waiting for an answer, she spun on the heel of one foot and moved off through the gathering the way Harry thought a shark would slide through a school of frightened fish.

Malfoy let out a sharp exhalation, and then he turned to Harry, his gaze very solemn.

"All right, there?" Harry barely refrained from reaching out and touching his arm. Malfoy only just sighed and glanced around, as if looking for something.

"Impressive, isn't it," he said without answering Harry's question. A tray laden with glasses of wine floated by and Malfoy plucked two, handing one to Harry. "Ivar certainly knows how to spend his wife's money."

"Oh?" Harry sipped his wine and waited for more. Malfoy had the best gossip.

"Darcelings; old money, you see," Malfoy said, leaning close so that he could drop his voice to a conspiratory murmur. "But they lost nearly everything in a series of bad investments. Ivar married the heiress of the Shao family. They're so wealthy, it's _obscene_."

Harry laughed a little at that. Malfoy squinted at him, his lips quirked up in a little grin.

"He's never managed to gain full access to her money."

"Smart," Harry remarked, looking away so that he wouldn't be caught staring for too long at Malfoy's face. That would cause him to want what he couldn't have; to reach out and touch Malfoy's wrist, feel the strength and warmth of his skin.

Malfoy said, "Of course she is. She has to be. He'd squander her inheritance in a matter of weeks."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the milling crowd. A few couples had begun to dance in the middle of the hall, laughing as they moved in synchronised steps. Harry turned and watched them in interest. It looked a bit fun; he didn't realise he had spoken that thought aloud until Malfoy said, "Oh, you'd like to dance, then?"

Harry blinked up at him. "I...don't know how," he said, and felt a sheepish grin take residence on his mouth. "I have a self-appointed society coach, you see, and he didn't tell me a _thing_ about dancing."

"Oh, for--" Malfoy visibly bit back a few choice expletives, and reached out to grip one of Harry's shoulders. He tugged him around to face the growing group of dancers. "It's simple, traditional Beltane steps. Look."

Harry squinted at them and wrinkled his nose. Beltane steps? They seemed rather complicated from where he stood.

"Maybe I'll learn better by doing," he finally decided and then slipped his hand into Malfoy's, feeling impossibly shy at the moment. Malfoy didn't seem surprised or put off by Harry's action. He simply squeezed Harry's fingers briefly and then stepped off towards the crowd of dancers in his usual determined fashion, pulling Harry behind him.

They joined the ends of two lines, facing each other. Malfoy called out moves to him, laughing over the music when Harry fumbled a turn, colliding into the persons on either side.

"Sorry, sorry!" Harry sang out breathlessly as he almost trampled over the elaborately gilded train of the wizard to his left. He was getting the hang of it, even though there were new moves added in, called out by Malfoy, who had become dance-leader, apparently. The two lines wove together and detangled at an increasingly faster rate. The music was at a comical blur of sound now.

Malfoy cried out, "Stop!" 

Harry, along with all the other dancers, staggered to a halt. Everyone was laughing, even those who had been watching. A few people fell against each other, giggling piles of fine clothing and extravagant head-gear.

Harry darted forward, grasping Malfoy's hands and grinning so hard that his cheeks burned.

"See?" Malfoy's returning smile was small, but genuine. "That wasn't so bad."

If anyone had told Harry in his school-years that seeing Malfoy's smile would have been a highlight of his day, he would have thought them mad.

Yet, here he was.

\---

Early Monday morning, Harry lurched through the Floo in the shop's office (that was supposed to be for the use of both Malfoy and Harry, but was really only utilised by Harry to balance their accounts and track their supplies). He righted himself with the rigidity of someone who had worked hard to train away the awkward stumbling, then walked past the desk and through the door, exiting to the shop proper. It was dim and still in that area, the rays of the springtime sun barely managing to clear the roofs of the tall buildings opposite the road. It wasn't quite opening time as yet; probably a little more than forty-five minutes to go.

"Morning," he called out, loudly. 

He paused, waiting for the usual faint response that would indicate Malfoy's presence; there was none. He strolled past the counter with its neat display of potions, an array of colours packaged in the distinct cut-glass cruets. Malfoy had easily convinced Harry that these narrow-necked, flat-bottom vessels would be an identifiable component of the potions shop they owned.

Harry turned down a narrow corridor. On the wall to the left were the doors leading to the rest-room and the storage space; the opposite wall of the corridor was dominated by a large, arched entryway, the timber frame decorated with carved runes and animals. Harry liked to think that the beautifully decorative arch had been pivotal in getting Malfoy to be a partner in this business. It was imposing and impressive, and any self-respecting Malfoy loved imposing and impressive artefacts.

He knocked on the frame and listened; he could hear a murmured conversation.

"Oh, go in," a carved snake told him. "He isn't doing anything important. Just being a horrid gossip, as usual."

Harry grinned. "Thanks," he said, and the clawed door-knob turned by itself. The door swung open and Harry peeped through the aperture, spotting Malfoy at the far end of the long laboratory.

Malfoy leaned against one of the counters, his elbows folded atop the polished surface. His head was hanging down, but he nodded now and again to the portrait hanging on the wall directly above him. Snape, dressed in flickering shadows, glanced up from his intent regard on Malfoy. His pale face and hands were the only points of focus in the entire painting; everything else, even his hair, seemed to be dreamlike smudges. This was the only frame in which he appeared like this, and Harry thought that its surreal presentation suited him the best. In the frames at Hogwarts, the details were crisp and neat, taking attention away from the solemnity of his gaze.

Snape continued to stare at Harry wordlessly and Malfoy looked around over his shoulder.

"Good morning," Harry said with a little wave. "Just got in."

"Oh?" Malfoy seemed quiet and worn. He turned around fully, and a very brief smile graced his lips for a moment. "I've been here for a few hours, myself."

Harry glanced around as he walked towards him. There were two long working-counters running the length of the room, with wide, deep sinks on both ends of each. About five big-bellied cauldrons brooded over low flames; Harry knew enough to understand that these were potions just at the end of their brewing. The timers near each flame would go off and extinguish the heat. Depending on the type of potion, Malfoy would either decant immediately, or wait until the contents cooled.

The sixth cauldron, the one closest to Malfoy, was over a higher flame, bubbling along nicely. Strolling past it, Harry spared it a quick glance.

"Are you okay?" he asked as soon as he got close, examining the other man's face closely. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Snape's head turning from one side to the other, taking in the both of them.

Malfoy blinked at him. "I'm fine," he said, but the pitch of his voice tilted up at the end, as if he was wondering why Harry was bothering him with such a query.

"Well, you're brewing Polyjuice, and you do that when you're in a bad mood," Harry pointed out. "And you forgot your gloves when you were chopping the knotgrass. Your fingers: they've gone all purple."

Malfoy's hands flew up to his face and he peered at them. His fingertips were indeed a very light indigo, and it would deepen over the coming weeks. It would even defy every concealment spell, apart from the strongest. He cursed under his breath.

"I guess you were distracted?" Harry wondered. Malfoy nodded. Above his head, Snape's dark eyes narrowed. The thin slash of his lips turned down at the corners.

"Why?" Harry wondered, not really expecting an answer, because Malfoy could still be a secretive berk.

"Pansy," Malfoy said, to Harry's surprise. He exhaled deeply. "Just a bit worried about her, is all."

"Oh." Harry looked up at Snape, whose eyebrows canted upwards in response.

Malfoy nodded. "Haven't seen her since that Beltane party at the Darcelings."

"Since Saturday?" Harry knew that they usually spoke to each other more than twice a day. "She's...probably busy."

"Probably." Malfoy rubbed the forefinger and thumb of his left hand together, frowning. "I'll Floo her, right now," he decided, clapping his hands together once. 

In his portrait, Snape nodded his agreement and gave Harry a long, dark stare before sliding out of frame. He hardly spoke to Harry directly, which was a deep disappointment and an odd relief to Harry at the same time. At times he wondered if this particular frame didn't allow Snape to speak or if he chose not to. Either way, he could be eloquent enough with his smirks and sneers. Once, Harry had been staring at the curve of Malfoy's neck for a beat too long while the other man had been deep in concentration, adjusting a formula in one of his massive books. When Harry had torn his gaze away, reluctantly, he'd encountered a hard scowl from Snape's portrait, and had exited the labs without trying to make it seem that he was fleeing.

Malfoy walked off now, checking the cauldrons as he stepped past them. Harry hurried in his wake, watching the movements of his wand and listening carefully to his muttered commentary regarding the state of his potions. Occasionally, when Malfoy was away from the lab, Harry would be asked to watch over them, a task he took very seriously; whatever Malfoy was grumbling over now might be helpful.

After a few minutes, Harry sat at his desk and watched Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy knelt on the thick cushion placed on the ground for that reason, and Floo'ed Parkinson's house.

An image of a large bedroom coalesced in the green flames, the curtains for the massive bed drawn aside. A few items of long, silky clothing were strewn over the bed-covers. The door to the bathroom was opposite the Floo, and it stood slightly ajar. Harry could see a bit of the rounded edge of a very fancy face-basin, shaped like the open shell of an oyster.

"Pans!" Malfoy waited a few impatient beats and called again. "Pansy!"

Harry thought he spotted a shadow move on the translucent lip of the face-basin, and apparently, so did Malfoy.

"Pansy, for fuck's sake, I know you're there. Don't make me come through!" He turned his head to look at Harry. "She gave me unrestricted access through her Floo. I'm sure she regrets it terribly. Pans!" he bellowed again.

A distant but familiar sensation began to build in the pit of Harry's stomach, unsettling enough to force him to his feet and around his desk to stand near Malfoy. It was a feeling he recognised and had learned to trust during his short stint as an Auror. "Maybe you _should_ go through?"

"If she's in the middle of her rose-milk bath, she'll have my balls," Malfoy muttered and then froze as a slight groan, almost too low to be heard, drifted out of the bathroom door.

"Pans!" 

He was already clambering through and Harry hurried after him, falling out in the Parkinson's bedroom. Malfoy was already near the door, having sprinted towards it upon exiting the Floo. He drew up abruptly when Parkinson's face peered around the edge of the door, her dark little eyes glaring at him.

Malfoy actually clutched at his chest with both hands and staggered back. "You wretch!" he cried at her. "Where have you been?"

"What do you mean, where have I been?" Pansy's glare deepened. Harry saw the curve of her bare shoulder and realised that she was probably naked behind the door.

"I've been right here, taking a bath," she said to Malfoy. "Or I was _trying_ to, until you barged in here like an old goat." Her gaze snapped to Harry and she pursed her lips. "And you've brought along Potter. Lovely."

Malfoy spun around and gaped at Harry as if he had no idea he'd been standing there. Harry raised his hand and waggled his fingers in a terribly awkward fashion. Malfoy blinked rapidly and then his lips twitched. He seemed oddly relieved at Harry's presence.

"He didn't bring me along," Harry said. "I just jumped in after him. We... were a bit worried."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Well, if we're all sorted now, I'd like to go actually take my bath. Shoo!"

She slammed the door and Malfoy yelled, "Well, fuck you, too!"

Harry snorted out a laugh and Malfoy's lips twisted into a wry smile.

"Alright. Back to work, then."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The Auror sent in to pick up the orders from the DMLE, Stoddard, spent a few minutes chatting with Harry. Madame Pomfrey owled in an order for more Skele-Gro, her spikey hand-writing taking up a small space near the Hogwarts' emblem on the parchment, and there was an encouraging stream of walk-in clientele. Harry had no problem with the fact that it was his name that drew people in; Malfoy's impeccable potions kept them coming back.

At the end of the working day, Harry carried the till's cash-drawer to the office and tallied up the total, logging it carefully. He'd thought that he'd find this part of the business to be tedious, but he was actually good at it. Malfoy was surprisingly horrible with running numbers and cash, and seemed content to let Harry sort out their accounts with minimal amounts of snark. The purchase of a rare ingredient was usually the source of any disagreement, but generally, Harry completely enjoyed working with him. He'd assumed that Malfoy would have been too bitter (or too rich) to want to join him in the venture, but the initial resistance was short-lived (that lovely architectural arch, Harry still believed, was a deciding factor). For himself, Harry hadn't wanted to sit at home, comfortable with his inheritance. He'd needed to work; his two years of Auror training and work had been enough to convince him that his need did not lie in that direction.

Malfoy knocked on his office door just as Harry had finished poring over a long list on a slip of parchment, striding in without waiting for a response. Harry looked up at him over the top of his glasses.

He waved his quill at Malfoy, smiling a little. "I'm sending out for these tomorrow. Do you need anything else?"

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, his gaze distant. Harry had the impression that Malfoy hadn't even heard the question.

"Malfoy?"

Malfoy shook himself a little and his faraway expression sharpened. "Hmm?"

Harry held up the list this time. "Shall I add anything else?"

"Oh. Yes, some dried lavender roots. Two kilos."

"I'll just get them from Neville," Harry said as he jotted the item and the quantity. Malfoy drifted towards the Floo, reaching for the powder in the small copper urn.

"Potter," he said and Harry glanced up from writing an order to Neville. "I'm going to drop by Pansy's before I go home."

"Okay?" Harry was a bit mystified. Malfoy had never said anything like that to him before. Malfoy's entire air seemed to be made up of a sort of tightly-wound tension.

"I was wondering if you'd come with me, just to Pansy's place," he said, sounding as if that sentence cost him a great effort to get out. "Just to check. I have this really odd feeling--"

"Yeah," Harry cut in firmly, hoping his smile was reassuring. "Sure, give a moment." 

Harry placed the list in the top drawer of his desk; it could be sent tomorrow. He tidied his desk as quickly as possible, sensing Malfoy's impatience, and then armed the night-time wards for the shop. He stood close to Malfoy by the Floo, close enough to smell his cologne, and the light sheen of sweat tinged with the mist of potion-ingredients, chopped, stirred and boiled. Harry was absently wondering if it was time to take on a lab assistant when Malfoy flung the powder, grabbed Harry's arm and said, "Pansy Parkinson's flat!"

Parkinson's bedroom was dark and cold, and became pitch-black as soon as the flames from the Floo went out. They both cast Lumos and looked around. A sense of uneasiness sidled up to Harry and put its bony fingers on his skin.

"Her clothes," he whispered, gesturing to the bed. The clothing he'd spotted that morning appeared to be the same ones. Had they even been moved? He thought that they hadn't.

Malfoy frowned and then marched towards the bathroom door. It stood wider than it had this morning, the surface of the sink gleaming in the wandlight.

Inside the bathroom was just dark, and a sweet scent bloomed in the air: like roses, but smoother. Harry heard the slow dripping of a pipe. A grand tub was at the opposite end of the room, six or seven wide steps leading up to it. There were layers of sheer curtains hanging from a metal rod attached to the ceiling, but they were all pulled to one side. Something caught their wandlight and reflected it back: a flash of ruby, emerald and amethyst. It extended up over the top of the tub, a smooth slender object. As Harry eyed it, it moved very slightly, a bare dip.

"What is that?" Malfoy said and headed towards the tub, Harry close at his heels. The sweet smell increased. When they climbed the steps and looked down, the source of the smell became clear: the tub was filled with rose-milk, rose petals floating on the surface in a thick layer.

The slender object seemed to rise up out of the rose petals like a tiny defiant lighthouse, and Malfoy reached out to touch it. Harry grabbed his wrist, for he had glanced up towards the top of the tub, to the area that the curtains had managed to obscure and his heart had seemed to crawl up in his throat.

"Don't look, don't--" he managed to croak out, but it was too late. He watched Malfoy's head turn slowly, and knew the moment he spotted the slack face floating above the petals.

Parkinson's eyes were wide open, staring up at the high ceiling.

Malfoy let out a hoarse cry. The sound of it sent gooseflesh prickling along Harry's arms. Malfoy lunged forward towards his friend, but Harry, still holding his wrist, dragged him back down the steps.

"Malfoy, no, don't touch her!" 

Harry struggled to hold him back, but Malfoy was a man possessed. He shoved at Harry and punched wildly, fighting to get back to Parkinson. In desperation, Harry grappled with him, got a firm hold around his waist and then dropped back onto the tiled floor, dragging Malfoy down with him. They fell heavily, but Harry didn't spare any thought for the pain that bloomed in his lower back. He wrapped his arms and legs around Malfoy and locked them tight.

Malfoy struggled and bucked, nearly freeing himself.

"Listen to me," Harry panted. "Malfoy, listen. Listen!" 

His shout echoed about the room. Malfoy froze. "She's gone. She's dead, there's nothing that can be done now. But you can't touch her. This...this is a crime scene now."

"Oh, god," Malfoy said. He gripped the front of Harry's shirt. "Oh god, no. No." 

He began to cry, hard, heaving sobs wracking his body. Harry loosened his grip, his limbs resting on the floor. Malfoy pressed his face against Harry's chest, the hot tears soaking through his shirt. Harry stroked his hair, swallowing hard.

"I'm so sorry," he kept saying, but Malfoy's grief and shock barrelled over his empathy and left it battered. All he could do was hold on. "I'm so sorry."

Finally, Malfoy's weeping petered out. He lay atop Harry, for a few moments, silent and still, and then got up, moving like a very old man. He crawled over to the nearest wall and sat with his back against it. The skin on his cheeks seemed ashen, and there were puffy bags under his eyes. Harry sat up, and cast _Expecto Patronum_. The stag appeared in a burst of triumphant light, but Malfoy didn't look up at it. He simply pulled his legs up, wrapped his arms around his thighs and pressed his forehead against his knees. In that moment, he looked very young, and very lost.

"There's been a murder at the Parkinson flat," Harry told the stag. "Please, get Ron here."

The stag bowed and bounded off through the wall of the bathroom. Harry looked over at Malfoy. His shoulders were trembling; he was crying again, but he wasn't making a sound.

\---

Ron scrubbed at his face and gave Harry a pained smile. Harry tried to smile back, but he failed. They were still in Parkinson's bedroom, standing near the door of the bathroom. Scene of Crime Aurors walked in and out, their shoes, hair and hands covered with a spell that prevented any further contamination.

Harry and Malfoy weren't even supposed to be in here, but Harry had pled his case, promising that they wouldn't get in the way, or spill any information. Ron had placed them under a _geas_ , anyway, but at least he'd allowed them to remain inside Parkinson's flat.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. His gaze drifted over to where Malfoy was sitting at the very edge of the bed, the clothing already removed for evidence. Harry turned to look as well, but Malfoy simply sat there, staring back at them. 

The lead Scene of Crime Auror, Melanie Reid, exited the bathroom and headed for Ron, her round face pinched with exhaustion.

"Alright there, Ron," she said, and then nodded at Harry. "Potter."

"Hello, Mel," Harry answered, quietly.

"No traces of spells, charms, hexes or curses." Mel said, turning to face Ron completely. "Place has been cleaned up by hand, and we haven't gotten any hair or skin samples. Coroner's going to check on the body, but it's been in the water since morning."

Harry stifled a sigh; the water might obscure any available evidence on the body…on _Parkinson's_ body. He glanced over at Malfoy, who didn't seem to be paying attention at the moment.

"At least time and cause of death were easy to get down." 

She held up her left hand, gripping what appeared to be a large black block of soft plastic, about the length of Harry's arm and the span of his palm. Mel murmured a spell, and the material became transparent very slowly, revealing the long slender object that had been buried in Parkinson's chest. It was a beautiful thing, a gentle arch that was very thin and sharp on one end, and fatter on the other. The thicker end was decorated in colourful gems.

"What's that?" Ron asked, tilting his head from side to side.

Mel started to explain, "Well, it's a--"

"It's a Chevrier robe-pin," Malfoy cut in, his voice low but steady. "They were popular two seasons ago." His fringe had fallen over his eyes and he brushed the fine hair away impatiently. "Pansy gave all of hers away, last month, I think. She had seven or eight of them, but she said they were horribly out of style." A ghastly smile threatened to overtake his face. "She sent them to a charitable organization or some such. She's only horrid to people she knows." He stopped, swallowed hard, and then looked away.

"Seasons?" Ron wondered after a few moments of silence.

"In fashion, I suppose," Mel said, allowing the preservation-block to regain its opaque state once more. "I never got into that."

"Right," Ron said. "Malfoy, you're sure this robe-pin isn't Parkinson's?"

"I'm positive about that." Malfoy turned his head and his eyes seemed feverishly bright. "That belongs to the killer, then."

Ron gave Harry a quick, hard glance and then said, "We can assume that."

"Coroner states that time of death was around quarter to eight this morning," Mel told Ron. Both Harry and Malfoy started.

"What's the matter?" Ron looked from one to the other, his eyebrows hitched high enough to wrinkle the rest of his brow. 

"That can't be right," Malfoy said, getting to his feet. "We were here after that, talking to her." He turned to Harry as if he was the only person in the room worth convincing. "Remember? I checked cauldron number three at ten before eight. We were here a few minutes after that. _We spoke to her_."

Mel shook her head, her thin plaits whipping from side to side. "Barry's absolutely sure on that one. He checked, twice, and his spellwork is always impeccable."

"I trust Malfoy's word, though," Harry said. "I didn't check the exact time, myself, but it wasn't quarter to eight. I got in the shop before that time."

Mel's expression became that of one about to hammer their point right into the ground, but Ron held up one hand.

"And you're both sure it wasn't her ghost you were speaking with?" he asked. 

Harry thought about that, but not too deeply. He shook his head in response.

"She didn't look like a ghost," Malfoy said. "She looked whole and real and…alive."

"Alright." Ron took on a very crisp and efficient tone. "We'll be taking an official statement from the two of you, and…I'm sorry, sir, you're not to be in here."

Confused, Harry glanced over his shoulder and realised that a very short man with small, bright eyes was standing at the door to Pansy's bedroom, the one which led out into the rest of the flat. He had a thick pile of grey hair, and the tips of his ears were slightly pointed. This little old man seemed to have some goblin heritage, and the way his beady black gaze rested on Harry only strengthened that assumption.

"I'm Miss Parkinson's neighbour, just down the way there," he said. "I saw something, thought you'd like to hear about it."

"Of course," Ron said, and stepped towards him, but halted when the man flapped a hand at him.

"I want to tell Auror Potter!" he said in a little screech. "That's who I'll speak to, Auror Potter." His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. He stepped back, as if he was about to scuttle off back to his own home.

Harry opened his mouth to firmly inform the man that he was years away from that career choice, but Ron spoke over him without skipping a beat.

"That's fine, sir, you'll get to talk to Auror Potter. But as his partner, I have to be there. What say you?"

The man scowled, but nodded. Harry hoped that Ron caught his sidelong glare, but Ron seemed calmly unaware of his expression, placidly walking past Harry to go out through the front door, leading this neighbour on and outside, away from the crime scene. 

When Harry stepped outside, he was surprised; he'd been expecting a corridor with other doors, but he stepped out into what appeared to be a large open-air courtyard with a wide, well-kept lawn. Fronds of ferns hung over the paved walkway which ran past the door. Harry could see the wooden doors of other flats arranged in a rectangle which was almost fully enclosed, except for exits at all four corners. 

The man's name was Robert Velmar, and he seemed very pleased to have Harry Potter standing in his flat, which was the same size as Parkinson's but seemed cramped for space. Velmar had stacks of parchment, old issues of _The Prophet_ arranged into maze-like curves. It was stifling, and Harry didn't venture past the vestibule.

Ron gave him a very meaningful stare. Harry stifled a sigh and said, "What can you share with us, Mr. Velmar?"

"You see them flowers out there?" Velmar jerked his round jowls towards the front door. "In front of my door."

"The pansies," Harry said. There was a really nice patch of the flowers out on the corridor, on the grassy side. 

" _She_ got them for me," Velmar said, and his voice shook. Harry looked at him, trying to reconcile the Parkinson he knew with the one who gave this surly man his flowers. "Rare types, and all. She said, 'Robert, you're the gardening type, grow these things'. She's a sharp thing, isn't she?"

"Yes," Harry agreed, softening his tone and his expression. Velmar gazed at his face intently and nodded, jerky and abrupt, as if he’d made a decision.

"I tend the flowers every single morning, little pruning and so on. Make ‘em nice. Give a few to Jenny across the way, there. So, I seen a lady walk right up to Miss Parkinson's door. She must have known the guard-spell to enter this here building. No one knows it but residents and their visitors, right?"

"Right," Harry said, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron's notepad had materialised beside his elbow, the quill scratching quickly. "What time was this?"

Velmar rocked his head from side to side, his lips curled in a considering pout. "Bit after seven, I'd say."

Harry asked, "Can you describe her, Mr. Velmar? The woman you saw." 

Velmar's expression brightened, as if he had been waiting all this time for this question in particular. "Real stylish, she was. She were a Chinese lady," he said firmly and Harry hoped the sound of his own sharp inhale hadn't been too loud. He knew Ron was writing 'of Asian descent' in his book. "She knocked on Miss Parkinson's door and when it opened, I heard her say, 'What are _you_ doing here?'"

" _Miss Parkinson_ said that," Harry said, just to clarify.

"Right, right," Velmar agreed.

"Okay," Harry said and nodded at the little man. "Thank you, Mr. Velmar. If there's anything else, we'll--"

"Miss Parkinson came out herself after awhile, you know." Velmar sounded as if he was talking to himself, deep in recollection. "She stepped out, just as fine as anything. Exceptin', she didn't say a thing to me, not a word. That was strange. She isn't like that."

A troubled suspicion built up in the back of Harry's mind. "What time was that? When you saw Miss Parkinson come out of her flat?"

Without hesitation, Velmar replied, "I just came back from having a bit of morning tea with Jenny, wanted to catch the morning news, you know. She ain't has no Muggle telly, our Jen. _That_ was about eight thirty."

\---

"We remanded Qiuyue Darceling a few hours ago." Ron murmured through Floo at Harry. Harry closed his eyes, briefly. "She said the robe-pin was hers, but she hadn't worn it in months. She claimed she hadn't been anywhere near Parkinson's flat at the time of the murder."

"Velmar identified her in a photo line-up?" Harry asked, propping his chin up on one hand, curled up in his favourite chair in the sitting -room, a massive thing that he could nap in if he wished. Malfoy was sleeping upstairs in Harry's bed; Harry had offered to bring him home, but Malfoy had gazed at him with a vacant expression, as if he wasn't seeing Harry at all. Harry had taken him to his own flat and tucked him in. Then, he'd gone to the Floo and had rung Malfoy's mother.

Narcissa had been pale, but perfectly composed. "Thank you, Mr. Potter," she'd said, crisply. "Tell him when he wakes that I will be at the Parkinson Manor tomorrow at two in the afternoon."

"He did," Ron said now, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No hesitation, quick as anything. We got a search warrant on that basis and Mel found some drops of freshly made Polyjuice on the sleeve of one of her robes…and a few strands of hair that the lab's matching to Parkinson now." He twitched his eyebrows at Harry. "You know I'm telling you all this because I trust you won't let it go anywhere."

"Of course, mate," Harry said, but his mind was ticking over the details.

There'd been powerful anti-Apparition wards on Parkinson's flat, and Lady Darceling must have been there when Harry and Malfoy had gone to check on Pansy. That meant she'd been in the bathroom when they'd gone through the Floo. She couldn't have left any other way. _She must have been there_ , Harry thought. It seemed highly probable that they'd spoken to _her_ , not Parkinson; must have been, since the pathologist had confirmed that Parkinson had been dead at the time Harry and Malfoy had Floo'ed into her flat.

Ron gave Harry a very long look. "Harry, she's going to be charged with murder. Wizengamot prosecutor's filing as we speak."

Harry let out a quiet sigh.

"You and Malfoy might be called up as witnesses for the prosecution," Ron told him. "Just putting you on notice, mate."

"Thanks, Ron," he murmured. After the call disconnected, he sat with his legs curled under himself for a moment. He recalled the look on Lady Darceling's face as she stared at her husband and Parkinson talking together. Then, his mind skipped restlessly to Robert Velmar's account.

He stared at the fire for a long time. 

\---

The water was dark and sweet-smelling, smooth against his skin. Harry floated in a kind of thick dusk, arms spread wide. He was in large tub, the surface a pale curve in the gloom. There were thin curtains on one side, and a solid wall on the other.

Fingers curled around the edge of the curtain; they were mostly pale, except for the tips, which were blackened as if they had been in a fire. Harry's eyes felt wide in his head; his heart seemed to gallop inside his chest as the hand pulled back the curtain. The rings screeched as they raked over the metal rod.

When the curtains were fully drawn, Malfoy stood there. In one hand, he held the beautiful robe-pin as one would grip a knife.

"Malfoy, no," Harry whispered, but Malfoy raised the weapon in the air, high over his head. His expression was calm, almost thoughtful. 

"Draco!" Harry cried as Malfoy brought down his arm with all his strength. Harry tried to swim out of the way, but his body didn't respond to his desperate wish. "Draco, no!"

He flailed awake just as the robe-pin pierced his skin. 

He sat up in his armchair, and pressed his palm flat against chest, feeling the wild race of his heart. _A dream_ , he told himself and tried to calm his breathing. _Just a dream_. It had been a long time he'd had dreams like that, not since he'd quit the Aurors. Granted, he _had_ been dreaming of Malfoy lately, but not in such a murderous fashion.

He sat in the quiet darkness, the Floo having gone out, banked down to grey ash some time after he fell asleep. He settled back in his chair, adjusted the cushion under his head and tried to shake away the dream. It filled his mind again even as he dozed off.

\---

The sound-lock to Courtroom Fourteen was two sets of double-doors separated by a short corridor. Harry walked in through these after Malfoy, pausing just inside the inner pair to stare at the shadowy space. 

Courtroom Fourteen was a study in semi-circles. One of the smallest trial chambers, it was at the very end of the Ministry's Level Ten, and was the only one designed with round floor plan. Harry thought this room had an interesting layout: there were only four benches for the public, two on either side of the corridor that continued on from the sound-lock. These benches were curved, neat arcs of dark, polished wood. Two smaller curved benches with matching desks stood in front of these. The left one was usually taken by the defending speakers and the right by the Wizengamot's prosecutor. In front of _those_ , in line with the end of the corridor, a box stood in which the accused was seated, shackled at times, if needed. The door to this box stood open.

The presiding judge sat in a box that was far grander, facing the accused. Behind the judge's box, a curve of armchairs covered in worn velvet faced the courtroom. Depending on the level and type of the case, these chairs would hold the jury, or representatives from the Wizengamot.

Presently, these were empty, as this was a preliminary hearing. Ron and Mel, as official Investigator and lead Scene of Crime Auror, were already present in the bench just behind the prosecutor's post. Ron turned his head and smiled briefly in Harry's general direction before turning back to his murmured conversation with Mel. Malfoy moved ahead with grim purpose, sliding into the bench behind the Aurors. He sat down at the very end, closest to the rounded wall, his robes falling neatly around him. Harry followed, keeping his gaze averted. Malfoy was dressed right sharp today, in dark grey with a lavender undershirt. 

Dressed to kill, actually. Harry thought he looked wonderful, except for the tightness around his lips and eyes. 

The prosecutor, Joanna Veracruz, hurried in first. She nodded at Harry as she passed by. Sliding into her seat with a flourish of her robes, she pulled a sheaf of parchment out of her flat case, her long nails changing colour from red to blue as the papers shifted through her fingers. The judge was next, walking in from the chambers set to the left of the jury-seats. Harry knew him from a few of his own cases. Judge Windermeyer was a tall, broad-shouldered man with closely shorn white hair. Harry knew him as a contemplative character, who possessed the air of a mild, absent-minded grandfather when he ambled through the corridors of the Ministry. In the court-rooms, however, his entire being sharpened with a focus that unsettled the newer members of the legal staff.

Lady Darceling's defence counsel was next. He was a young man with straight black hair, and very soft features. Harry didn't know him at all, but he still received a quick nod.

"We're all here, I see." Judge Windermeyer glanced around slowly and then withdrew his wand from beneath the lapel of his dark robes, tapping it on the ledge of his desk. A silver quill popped into existence just out of his reach, followed by a layer of parchment. "Good morning, Prosecutor Veracruz." The quill scribbled urgently as the judge spoke.

"Good morning, your Honour," Joanna answered, in her quick, knife-like manner.

Judge Windermeyer shifted slightly and peered at the defence. "Good morning, Counsel Lyew."

"Good morning, sir."

"Aurors, welcome," Judge Windermeyer went on, but his gaze was fixed on Harry. "Good morning, Mr. Potter. Kindly explain your role here today?"

The quill paused, as if curious as to the response Harry might offer. Harry felt more than saw Malfoy tense, as if he was ready to stand and speak. He put out his hand and placed it on Malfoy's closest wrist, just below the cuff of his sleeve. Underneath the weight of Harry's fingers, his pulse thrashed wildly. Harry squeezed; just a bit, not too much pressure, but it seemed to make no difference.

"I'm accompanying the representative of the victim's family as informal counsel, sir," Harry answered, keeping his tone low and even. Voices echoed in an eerie fashion in this particular space. "The representative, as chosen by the Parkinson family, is Mr Draco Malfoy."

"The court recognises the family's right to attend this hearing, or send their representative. It also acknowledges their wish to be accompanied by their own counsel, informal or otherwise." Judge Windermeyer's gaze was heavy on them as the quill hurried back to work. "Bailiff, kindly bring forward the accused."

A door on the defence counsel's side slid open, and an Auror dressed in blue stepped out, and turned. Lady Darceling followed her out, walking slowly. She wore a beautifully shimmering robe, and her dark hair was loose about her face. A thick black bracelet encircled her risk, imbued with charms to prevent Apparition. She kept her head up and her gaze level, making her way to the large box and climbing up the few steps to sit. The Auror made sure her feet and clothing were out of the way, and then closed the door quickly.

"Qiuyue Darceling," Judge Windermeyer said, fixing his intent gaze on her. "The Wizengamot, through its prosecuting counsel, lays this charge against you: the murder of Pansy Parkinson. I see you have already retained your counsel. Has Defender Lyew explained to you that this is the initial arraignment?"

"Yes, your Honour." Lady Darceling's words were almost inaudible. "It has been explained."

"Then you understand that you are not to enter your plea at this point. We are simply here to determine if bail should be set, and at what amount. Do you understand?"

She nodded, a slow dip of her head. "I do."

Judge Windermeyer lifted his head and looked from Veracruz to Lyew. "Counsels, if you will."

The arguments presented were swift and succinct. The prosecutor went first, citing Lady Darceling's family connection in another country as reasons to deny bail.

"She's a flight risk," Veracruz argued. "Her country of birth has no extradition agreement with our government."

"Lady Darceling is a naturalised witch," Lyew countered, and that charming softness in his features now slipped away. "If we're going to bring up her country of birth, she was a model of upstanding behaviour there, and performed many charitable works. She's only continued that pattern as a citizen of the magical United Kingdom. She has a young child, and needs to be close to him."

"The house-elves take wonderful care of her son, I'm sure." Veracruz's tone had just the slightest edge of sarcasm. "And will continue to do so as long as she is away. Not to mention that he also has a father to provide parental attention. Your Honour," she said, bending forward slightly, "she cannot be allowed to leave the custody of the Aurors."

"You have no possible reason to believe that she will flee the reach of the Wizengamot!" Lyew frowned heavily at Veracruz, who narrowed her eyes at him.

"I do," she answered. "Accusations of murder can be a fine incentive. I have no possible reason to believe that she _won't_."

"Enough." Judge Windermeyer had been staring down at his own clasped hands during the whole presentation, as was his habit. "My decision is as follows." He paused for a few slow breaths. "Qiuyue Darceling, you are to return to the custody of the Aurors. This court will not offer you bail."

Harry felt more than heard the slow exhalation from Malfoy, and he realised that he still had his fingers wrapped around the other man's wrist. He removed his fingers quickly, keeping his gaze ahead. The Auror who had brought Lady Darceling in returned to open the box. She stepped down, and then turned around so quickly that the Auror had no time to stop her.

She stared right at Malfoy. Harry caught his breath at the stricken expression on her face.

"I didn't--" was all she said before the Auror grasped her arm, not very roughly but still in quite a firm manner, and led her towards the same door through which she had entered. 

Harry chanced a glance at Malfoy's expression. His face seemed blank and cold, like a block of ice.

"That was quicker than I expected," Malfoy said, getting to his feet and smoothing down the front of his robes.

"Yes," Harry agreed, very softly. 

He led the way out of the courtroom, not waiting to speak with either the judge or the prosecutor. When they stepped out into the large hallway with its vaulted ceiling, they spotted Ivar Darceling standing right across from the entrance. He was dressed in a robe of dark-red material with fur around the collar. On his hands were a pair of gloves that only covered his fingers and half of his palms. Ivar tilted up his chin and looked at Harry and Malfoy down his nose. Defender Lyew hurried out of the room and over to him, taking him by the elbow and leading him away.

"He's the reason she's dead." Malfoy stared down the corridor at their retreating backs. "That fucking--"

"Come on," Harry said, touching him on the elbow. "I'll drop you home, if you like."

Malfoy looked at him the same way Ivar Darceling had a few minutes ago. His upper lip curled, slightly. 

"I'd rather go back to the shop." His tone was cutting, as it had been when Harry had first approached him with the idea of a potions' business. "You don't have to tag along, Potter."

He was pissed over something, Harry realised. It was really a shame that Harry found him even more attractive when he was angry. He said, amicably enough, "I'll come with, then. Got some paperwork to go through."

Malfoy disappeared into the labs as soon as Harry Apparated them in. The shop was closed for the day, but Harry did indeed have some documents to review; that took him a little under fifteen minutes. When he finished that, he squared his shoulders and marched down to the laboratory. He knocked and then opened the door immediately afterwards, so as to not give Malfoy a chance to refuse him entry.

The lab was in a state of well-ordered disarray. Malfoy had emptied out all the tall cupboards, and every bottle, vial and jar sat in regimented rows atop the work-stations as he flicked his wand at the empty shelves.

"I'm going to take a wild guess: you're angry with me over something," Harry hazarded. 

"Why would you say that?" Malfoy twitched his wand viciously, and a wave of soapy water cascaded over the newly cleared surfaces.

Harry perched on a stool out of the way of fire. "Because we're more alike than you think. When I'm pissed off, I clean too."

Malfoy sneered in Harry's general direction and slashed his wand-arm from one side to the other. A hot breeze roared through the cupboards, drying the space and, with another slash of his wand, the bottles and containers flew back into their proper locations. Malfoy whirled to face Harry; his hair stood on end.

"That woman," he gritted out and then took a few deep breaths. "She took Pansy away from me. Away from her parents. She was their only daughter and you _pitied_ her _murderer_ just now."

"No, that's not--" Harry began to dispute and then he stopped. He closed his mouth over the rest of his protestations. They wouldn't be true in any case.

Malfoy's expression was one of furious triumph. "Your face, Potter. It can be quite easy to read. When she _spoke_ to me today--"

"I couldn't help it." Harry kept his gaze locked to Malfoy's. He felt that if he looked away, Malfoy might hex him out of sheer spite. "I just have this feeling--"

"I don't give a fuck about your feelings," Malfoy said in a conversational tone, leaving Harry swallowing hard at the sudden weight in his chest. "I really don't."

_Ouch_ , Harry thought, but Malfoy was far from finished.

"Pans was the only friend worth having and she's gone. I could have been there before she died, you know." He still had that very calm manner of speech, and it was freaking Harry out just a little. He wondered how fast he could draw his wand before Malfoy really _did_ hex him. "A few minutes, and I could have stopped _her_ , but I didn't. So pardon me if I can't dredge up any commiseration for your _feelings_."

_Double ouch_. Harry managed to nod slowly, and said, "I can't explain to you how sorry I am that you've lost her. And I can't explain to you how unsettled I am about this case."

Malfoy actually _smiled_ , and it was a horribly beautiful thing. "I'll save you the trouble then, shall I?" 

Malfoy stalked out of the lab, leaving Harry in the now spotless space. He glanced towards the back and saw Snape's smoky image in its frame. Snape glanced meaningfully in the direction of the door, which was still slowly closing after Malfoy had flung it open. Harry looked that way as well, and then turned back to shrug at Snape.

Snape shook his head, and glided out of view.

\--

Harry cleaned his office, too. He didn't feel like going home, he didn't feel like chasing down Malfoy; there wasn't anything to explain, was there? All he would do was repeat what he'd said earlier and then Malfoy's guilt-fuelled fury would know no bounds. Harry had experienced such visceral reactions before. It was just a bit hard to stomach, coming from Malfoy.

He had just finished organising a few recent receipts when his door swung open and Malfoy strode in, stepping high and carefully.

"Are…are you _drunk_?" Harry stared in wonder as Malfoy perched on the very edge of the other chair, his nose and cheeks very red. "I hope you didn't Apparate here by yourself."

"’Course not," Malfoy answered with sodden dignity. "Your friend Weasley did the honours."

Harry stopped in the midst of searching a large box for a few small vials of De-Intoxication Potion he kept in here as samples. 

"You went drinking with _Ron_?" 

Malfoy sat up very straight and then rocked very slightly from side to side. He narrowed his eyes. "I didn't _go_ drinking _with_ him. I stopped by the Leaky; he was there. We had a few."

"You were drinking with Ron," Harry said, finally locating the small bottles he sought. He uncorked two and handed them over to Malfoy. "You'll be needing these, then. You really shouldn't drink with Ron, you know; he has alcohol in his veins."

Malfoy gripped the containers and squinted at the pale-coloured liquid. Harry glimpsed his darkly tinted fingertips and wisps of that disturbing dream brushed through his mind. Malfoy sniffed each bottle and then, satisfied, downed them one after the other. His entire face became as red as his nose and he coughed violently. In a moment, his skin returned to its usual pale tone, albeit with a slight sheen of sweat on his brow.

"I should leave off the capsicum in that formula," he said, handing the bottle back over to Harry. "It already has a punch to it, what with the cinnamon."

"You should have just gone home." Harry plugged up the mouth of the bottle and placed it on his desk. He'd wash it tomorrow. "I was about to leave, myself."

"Well." Malfoy spent a few moments adjusting his sleeves. "I returned to apologise, if you must know."

Harry sat down slowly and tried not to gape. "You did?"

"I did." Malfoy lifted his gaze from his sleeves and looked right into Harry's eyes. "What I said was unkind, and patently untrue. Pansy wasn't the only friend worth having, although I've known her nearly all my life. You've…well." He cleared his throat and looked away to one side, frowning at the side of the cabinet. "You've done a lot for me. I hope you know that I'm grateful."

"I'm glad you can call me friend," Harry murmured, even though part of him yearned for so much more, and maybe shouting it. "I really am."

"Yes." Malfoy leaned forward and there was a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "I've always wanted to know, though. Why did you leave the Aurors? I asked Weasley, but all he would say is that you'd been right brilliant and it was such a loss when you left. We're friends; you can tell me."

"You manipulative bastard." Harry laughed, incredulous and a little warm at Malfoy's focused attention. "There isn't much story there, sorry."

"I think there is." Malfoy smiled at him, a slow beautiful thing. It was like a weapon, and Harry wondered if he practiced smiling like that, to disarm and distract. "I'd like to know, Harry."

Harry blinked at him, at the sound of his first name coming out of Malfoy's mouth like that. He sat back fully in his chair and gnawed at the inside of his lip. Malfoy seemed content to simply drill holes in Harry's head with his stare, and Harry nodded after a moment.

"Joining in the Aurors was really a dream come true for me," he said. "First month on active duty and I got assigned to the Extra-Magical Cases Unit. That's for crimes that occurred in the Muggle world," he explained when Malfoy's brow furrowed, slightly.

"I see. Go on."

Harry hesitated before he actually _did_ go on. "Well. I was placed on homicide cases and I did very well, because…I saw crimes."

Malfoy frowned again, but he remained silent.

"I mean, the pieces would fly around and then just lock into place, and it's like I could see the crime as it happened." Harry glanced down at his lap. "It sounds weird when I say it out loud, doesn't it?"

"Not really." Malfoy smiled when Harry looked up. "Weasley said that sometimes you'd figure it out quite some time after, the evidence, but you were never wrong on a first guess. He claimed that you were almost clairvoyant…which is actually a thing in the magical world, just so you know."

"Oh, imagine that," Harry said, rolling his eyes as Malfoy's grin became roguish. He felt his own small grin slip away as he went on: "It got to me, though. I started having dreams. I'd be the killer, or be the victim." He shrugged at this gross over-simplification; there had been times that Harry hadn't been sure if he’d been awake or asleep. "I figured that anything else was better than that, and then left. That's it."

This was really glossing over the heaps of pills and the psychiatric evaluations; his slow descent into a very vivid internal hell-scape; and his struggle to climb back out, but Malfoy didn't need to know that much, not yet. Harry wanted to tell him, he really did, but he didn't want to burden him at the same time. Not now, in any case.

Malfoy rubbed the fingers of one hand together, thoughtfully, and Harry gazed at them for a moment.

"Your fingers are so purple now," he remarked with a little laugh, trying to lift the sombre mood. "You'd think for such an accomplished potioneer, you'd remember to put on your gloves for the knotgrass."

Malfoy gave him a look of faux haughtiness. "I'll have you know, Potter, that every edition of every potions' book _ever written_ has the same recipe for Polyjuice potion, unchanged for decades. No one has ever added that bit about the knotgrass staining one's fingers, because it's not that important, anyway. Even experienced masters like Snape forget something so insignificant."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, Hermione had that problem when she made it in second year."

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "Whatever would she need it for in second year?"

"Er. That's a story for another day." Harry was just on the verge of teasing Malfoy about something else, when the comment fled his mind completely. A piece of the case, one that had nudged in his dreams, now slammed into his head with such a force that he would have staggered if he'd been standing.

"Malfoy." His voice sounded very strained to his own hearing. " _Malfoy_ ," he repeated.

Malfoy looked at him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Her fingers," Harry said and swallowed hard. "Qiuyue Darceling's fingers. They're fine. They're not stained, I mean."

Malfoy had started scowling at the mention of Lady Darceling, but then he stopped and gazed at Harry, his eyes wide.

"Are you sure?" he asked, so quietly that it was almost a whisper.

"I am," Harry responded, whispering as well.

Malfoy put a trembling hand to his forehead, tapping at the skin there. He peeped through his fingers at Harry and then removed his hands slowly, fixated on whatever he found on Harry's face.

"You know who, now. You _know_."

"Yes." Harry nodded. He couldn't really focus on Malfoy's expression just now. Images, brought on by the vivid imagination that used to torture him, now fell in front of his mind's eye with sure clarity. "Yes."

"Tell me," Malfoy nodded, and his smile was a terrifyingly sharp sliver in his face. "Call the name."

"Ivar," Harry whispered. "Ivar Darceling."

"The robe-pin," Malfoy said, and he sounded as if he was choking on the words. "If she was anything like Pansy when it came to fashion, and she _was_ , I can tell you that at the very least, she wouldn't have been wearing it out of season. He doesn’t seem like the type who would know that about his own wife."

"He Polyjuiced himself as his wife and got to Pansy's house," Harry murmured, seeing it happen in front of him. He could almost smell Velmar's flowers. "He killed her. I think she knew at the end that it was him." Harry couldn't explain how he knew that, he just _did_. "He was just about to leave, but we showed up. So he took the rest of his Polyjuice with her hair, and pretended to be her until we left. That sound we heard, that groan…it was probably him, changing."

"Oh god." Malfoy put his head on the table. "He thought he had two Snitches with one rock, didn’t he? His wife's money, and both of them out of his life." He lifted his head and pinned Harry with a fierce glare. "How can we get him? Is it too late?"

Harry smiled at him. It felt slow and indulgent. 

"You've never seen Ron at work with suspects, have you?" He raised his wand and summoned his Patronus. 

"Ron," he said, knowing that the stag would speak using his voice. "It's Ivar, not his wife. Make him take off his gloves, they'll be stained with an ingredient found in Polyjuice Potion. I think Mel can match it with her sample." His smile grew into a satisfied grin. "And then you can work your magic, mate."

\--

Malfoy knelt and placed a small pot of yellow and purple pansies near Parkinson's headstone. He stood up and looked down at it, contemplative. Harry wondered if he should wander off and give the other man some space. When he took a step back, though, Malfoy glanced over his shoulder and made a _stay-right-there_ face at him.

Harry stayed right there. The memorial service had been distressing enough; Malfoy had spent most of it beside Parkinson's weeping mother, his face devoid of any emotion. Now that they were the only ones left, Malfoy's entire being seemed to shiver with feeling.

"Well, Pans," Malfoy said and cleared his throat. "Darling," he started again and then stopped. Then, so quietly that Harry could hardly hear him, he said, "I'll miss you, you horrid thing. Terribly."

He turned and held out his hand to Harry, who stared at it for a moment before reaching out and grasping it. Malfoy's skin was warm; he squeezed Harry's hand as he pulled him close.

"Potter's going to take care of me from now on, so you won't have to worry." Malfoy smiled down at the statue of the nymph lounging atop the headstone. "Won't you, Potter?" He turned and looked at Harry, still clutching his hand.

"I'll try my best," Harry said, after a few long moments of just staring back at Malfoy.

"I look forward to it," Malfoy said, and squeezed Harry’s hand again.

 

_fin_


End file.
